The Adventure of the Mysterious M
by Elluviel
Summary: Ms. Margaret Hunter is killed after she predicts her death to the world's only consulting detective. Theories of triple lives swirl around Sherlock Holmes as he attempts to discover the cleverest criminal in London, whose skills surpass his own. Who is this criminal? And how is she related to him?
1. Chapter 1

**Good day!**

 **Here I present my first Sherlock Holmes case. I originally wrote it as one piece, with no chapters, but I have inserted 3 for easier reading. I would love to hear your opinion!**

 **Thank you, as always, for reading!**

 **Elluviel**

* * *

In order to save a life that was absolutely necessary for the peace of London, I have been sworn to secrecy until the danger has passed. Now, however, I deem it safe to put to the public the true story of Miss. Margaret Hunter.

It was a quiet afternoon, and I was reading a novel while Holmes was studying some sort of paper. He entered into my attention when he threw the paper on the table.

"Well, what do you make of that, Watson?"

Since he was clearly disturbed, I set down my book and picked up the letter. It was an ordinary type of paper, written in the most commonplace handwriting I have ever seen. It might have been typewritten, but in any case, read as follows:

 _I will be in your rooms at ten o'clock this evening to discuss a matter of extreme urgency. I trust that somewhat late hour will not disturb you and that you will be able to meet with me._

 _M._

I glanced at Holmes. "I really don't see any difficulty. Clearly a client who wishes to remain anonymous needs your assistance."

My friend crossed his arms. "If M _wanted_ to be anonymous, he would not have signed the paper at all. No, it's something else…"

"What?"

Holmes shrugged. "I can think of three possibilities, but until I have more evidence, I cannot choose which one. The part that irritates me is _how_ M did it!"

I frowned. "How?"

"This morning I was finishing up a trivial case when a little beggar boy thrust this note into my arms, and disappeared among the crowd. This note is evidently not from the little boy, so he acted as a messenger. The note is very simple with no clues whatsoever except that the writer-"

Suddenly, Holmes sunk back into his chair, murmuring meaningless words. A moment later he was back.

"Right! That is exactly how I would have done it if I wished to remain utterly untraceable. This M clearly knows my methods well."

"Perhaps Moriarty," I suggested.

Holmes smiled. "Excellent, Watson, excellent! But the thought had already crossed my mind, and I had eliminated it. It is not the professor's custom to hide his true identity, especially with me, since I already know all about him. Oh well. It should be a very interesting case, especially due to the late hour. Hmm, that handwriting _is_ very curious…"

I frowned. "What do you mean? It is almost absurdly commonplace, with no unique markings."

"Exactly. That is what is curious."

And for the rest of the evening, he refused to eat, and lounged in his armchair smoking with hollow eyes, deep in thought.

But at a little before ten, Holmes sprang up, glanced out the window, and told me, "Be a good fellow and run downstairs to get the door for the lady. I don't think anyone is up at this hour on a winter evening."

However, not a moment had passed before we heard light footsteps up the stairwell.

Holmes shrugged. "Someone _is_ up."

In response to three sharp knocks, my friend called, "Come in!" The door nearly flew open, and we caught sight of Miss. M.

She was remarkably tall, just slightly under Holmes' height, and her long skirt made her appear taller. She was dressed all in black, plainly but elegantly, without any adornments save a pair of small earrings. I would have guessed she was in mourning. Her face was quite plump, her cheeks rosy, but slightly wrinkled. I would have guessed her age to be around forty. Her bearing was graceful, and she seemed pleasant enough, but her eyes were sharp and grey, like steel.

She smiled graciously. "If it is not too much trouble, Dr. Watson, could you please close those curtains? Over the window, yes."

I had made my way to the window before I turned around, puzzled. "How did you know my name?"

The lady glanced at Holmes mischievously. "The same way that I know Mr. Holmes, unlike yourself, has correctly deduced that I am not in mourning."

My friend frowned. "And how had you known that?"

She smiled. "It is my business to know things. That is a part of my trade."

Perhaps it was one of those rare instances where Holmes was more surprised than I was. This woman spoke like my friend, thought like him, and acted like him.

But as usual, he recovered faster than I did. "You had a long walk, and you went through the park, as evinced by the condition of your boots."

"As did you, this morning, or so my sources tell me," she replied.

"You are not accustomed to exercise, and you work indoors mostly, by your incredibly pale skin and heaving breath."

"I may say the same to you, though you are remarkably fit."

"You play the flute," Holmes ascertained.

"And you play the violin."

"There are dangerous people on your trail."

At that, the lady peered at him curiously. "How did you know that?"

Holmes smiled, and as he waved her over to an armchair, he said, "It is my business to know things. That is a part of my trade."

The two sat down, and Holmes cordially asked, "To whom do I have the honour of addressing? One equal in observation as well as deduction?"

The lady smiled. "My name is Margaret Hunter, but in a few hours, I suppose, it shall not matter. Please take a seat, Dr. Watson, after you have closed those drapes. It is extraordinarily awkward with you hovering over us like that, though I will not mind if you listen."

Somewhat embarrassed, I quickly drew the curtains and sat down, as Holmes asked, "Why shall it not matter?"

Miss. Hunter gazed at him, and I couldn't help but see that her eyes gave the quick, subtle movement that Holmes made when he was discreetly observing people, a habit I had only recently grown to notice.

"Because I will be murdered by then," she answered calmly.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Murdered? Strong words. Is that you closed the drapes? Why you wished to consult me?"

Miss Hunter gave a small, dry laugh. "Yes, and no. Nothing you could do would prevent it."

"Try me."

The lady looked at him, amused, certainly not very concerned about the danger. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that it is impossible. The reason of my visit is that I have great hopes that you will be able to set the police upon the right murderer, when they find my dead body tomorrow."

Holmes clasped his fingers together. "You do not seem very worried about this upcoming attack."

Miss Hunter shook her head. "Oh, I am. Wouldn't you be, if you knew it would happen? But if I can do nothing to change the matter, why worry?"

"Why worry indeed," Holmes murmured.

"The only thing I can do is to make sure that my death is properly avenged," she finished.

"Is there a reason why you had to come to me beforehand? Why do you not trust me to solve the case to-morrow?"

The lady nodded. "If I had not come, you would have convicted the wrong person. You agree, do you not, that I know your methods quite well?"

Holmes gave a slight nod.

"That is how I know that if I did not set you upon the right track now, you would have been wrong in your deductions tomorrow. The police, of course, would have, and will be, even worse than that, but I cannot go to them. You understand why I need a private detective."

My friend leaned back. "First of all, tell me why you are about to be murdered."

Miss Hunter pursed her lips. "Because of my father, Mr. Holmes. My father was a man who had many enemies. He died of a heart attack a few years ago, but one by one, for revenge, my mother and siblings have been killed, a death on every August 13th. Tonight is the twelfth. I am quite certain that tomorrow I will be dead."

"For all of your mental skill, I am surprised you could not do anything to prevent this fatal outcome."

The lady shrugged. "My father's enemies are vast and cunning. Even more so than I am. I am helpless under them."

"They seek revenge by killing off every blood relative of your father?"

Miss Hunter nodded. "I am the last one alive. I hope, after I die, that no one else will be murdered, especially my husband. That as all the hope I have left."

"Do you not want me to try to prevent your death?"

The lady shook her head firmly. "No, it would bring about your destruction. Several have tried to help my poor family, but all have died in the effort. I do not want you to be next."

"Do you have any idea as to who these enemies of your father are? They must be some sort of an organization to keep up such a grievance for so many years."

Miss Hunter exhaled sadly. "No, I do not know who they are, I just know they are dangerous and will get to anyone they wish to."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Really. Well, how do they usually go about killing?" My friend had absolutely no regard for the lady's feelings, and I was horrified by it all, but it seemed to me that she herself took his same attitude, as if it were a scientific experiment.

"As I said, it occurs on August 13th. I believe that was the date that they had planned to kill my father on, but he had died before they could. As to how they kill, it varies. No two deaths are alike."

Holmes clasped his hands together. "I see. So, you wish to give me exclusive information as to the true identity of your murderer?"

Miss Hunter nodded, and suddenly stood. "I believe you have enough information at this point. Now, I really must be leaving, or William will grow worried."

Holmes and I stood as well, but my friend suddenly asked, "Why meet me at this late hour? Surely it will give the murderer a better ability to kill you unnoticed."

The lady smiled. "And give me a better ability to hide, as you have no doubt discovered. Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

But my companion suddenly reached forward, and laid an urgent hand on her shoulder. "I cannot allow one of my clients to walk into death."

Miss Hunter gave him a sly look. "I am not your client, Sherlock Holmes. I am your enemy."

Then she swiftly departed from the room. I made a move to follow, but Holmes laid a restraining hand on my arm. "No, Watson. Let her go."

"Holmes! The lady is going to be murdered! Are we to do nothing about it?"

My friend frowned. "Nothing? No, of course not. But whatever we are going to do is going to happen to-morrow. She made it clear that there are no steps to take to save her life."

I shook my head. "Well, what do you make of it all? It seems she struck you speechless half the time. And what of the equal deductions? And that she is your enemy?"

Holmes rubbed his hands, his eyes gleaming. "That woman is clever, very clever. One of the most cunning thieves in all of London. Margaret Hunter…hmm, maybe it will not be so bad that she is killed."

"Holmes!"

"But the question is, _who_ would kill her? Assuming her story to be true, the enemies of her father will. But if they are so bad, they would want her on their side."

I frowned. "I am afraid I do not follow."

Holmes started pacing. "It's really quite simple, my dear Watson. Either she is not as horrible as I thought, or has done something to upset the underworld of London."

"Is there any way for you to know?"

My friend collapsed into his armchair and lit his pipe. "Not until the morning!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "What do I tell you, never theorize without facts. And of those I only have but precious few. Those earrings, though, they'll decide…"

I barely got any rest that night. This whole business with Miss Hunter was enough to keep my mind active. Was she the enemy of Holmes? Drawing him out for some ill fate? Or was she innocent, and dramatic in saying that she was his enemy?


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, at a most ungodly hour, Holmes stood by my bed, fully dressed.

"The game is afoot, Watson! Here we are, at two in the morning, not four hours after Miss Hunter departed from our rooms, and she lies on Boscombe Street, utterly dead. Come, my man, come!"

I rose slowly, but at an insistent exclamation from my friend, I quickly dressed and had just enough time to grab my coat before I was whisked out the door.

Never I had seen Holmes with so much energy, so alive, full of life and vigour. His cheeks were flushed, his step was springy, and his eyes shone. This was what he was made for.

Boscombe Street was just a short walk from our rooms, and an even shorter one at the speed Holmes went. Lestrade, a little weasel of a man, hurried up to us.

"Thank God you came so quickly in such early hours, Mr. Holmes! You too, Dr. Watson. I have absolutely no idea how this has happened. I have the police blocking off the area, but I hope we can get this cleaned up by the morning in time for the traffic."

My friend nodded stiffly. "Show me Miss Hunter's body."

The detective widened his eyes. "You are a wizard! How did you know her name?"

Holmes smiled. "For the very simple reason that she came to me last night."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "So you failed her."

"On the contrary. I hope to fulfil her wishes now."

Swiftly, he stepped past the detective and headed straight toward the body, which was on its back. I cringed inside.

The look of the lady's face was so horrible, so different from last night that I could hardly believe it was the same woman. The features, once smooth and plump, were twisted and disfigured, and her eyes were wide and ghostly terrified.

Holmes glanced at me. "Well, Watson, as a doctor, what would you prescribe?"

"Terror," I replied promptly. "She died of fear."

Lestrade nodded. "That is exactly what I thought. But why? Who terrified her to such a great extent? You can see there is no blow or bruise, or any leakage of blood."

Holmes took out his glass and knelt next to it. He gave the body one of his careful, meticulous examinations, rubbed her cheeks, and moved a strand of hair from her ear. Then he stood, shaking his head.

"Well?" Lestrade prompted.

Holmes slid his magnifying glass back into its case. "A graver situation than I had thought. A complicated manoeuvre, a cunning scheme. Ah, you must be Mr. William Hunter!"

The lady's husband was very distraught. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I do not know what to do! Please do everything you can! Money is no object."

Holmes glanced up at him sharply. "Indeed? Could you answer a few of my questions?"

Mr. Hunter nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes of course."

"Did you know your wife to be an honourable woman? No faults? Sound character?"

The widow twiddled his gloved thumbs nervously. "Well, in her heart, I think Margaret was a good woman. She did have a few faults here and there but-"

"What kinds of faults?"

Mr. Hunter frowned. "You will forgive me if I do not tell you the particulars, especially as she i-is dead."

"Mr. Hunter, I must reinforce my question. What were her faults?"

The man swallowed under Holmes' fierce stare. "S-she was a thief. A very skilled one. No one paid her much attention, since she was a woman and not a very attractive one."

"A skilled one from the excellent conditions of your clothes," Holmes observed.

Mr. Hunter nodded. "I-I suppose so. It was wrong, but too great of a temptation for us. We could make so much more money illegally without anyone discovering."

"Did your wife ever meet with anyone frequently?"

The widow nodded vigorously. "A charming young lady, though I never knew her name. She was my wife's boss. Assured me that the thieving wouldn't do much harm."

"Was the lady tall? Grey eyes?"

Mr. Hunter widened his eyes. "Yes! You know her?"

"I will," Holmes murmured.

Then he glanced up again cheerily. "Anything else you wish to tell me?"

The men reached into his pocket, and handed a note to Holmes. "This was on her desk."

The note read:

 _Sherlock, I am your sister._

It was written on the same ordinary paper of the previous day, but the handwriting was much different. Firm and elegant.

Mr. Hunter quivered. "I do not know what that means."

Holmes stuffed the paper into his pocket. "I will keep this, please. Were you aware of any enemies of your wife's father?"

The man widened his eyes. "You know about them?"

"Your wife visited me last night." He told Mr. Hunter of her visit, and the widow nodded.

"Yes, I know of those enemies. Margaret was always terrified of them. She did everything she could, but…" Mr. Hunter shrugged. "A thief is not very good at evading such an organized society."

"So that explains why she died of fear."

"Yes, I believe that is so."

"One last question. Did your wife happen to possess clip on earrings?"

Mr. Hunter, as well as the rest of us, was puzzled at the question. "Um, no, she wore no jewellery, and preferred to spend the money she gained on gowns."

Holmes shook his hands firmly. "Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You have provided many important details to make my view complete."

Lestrade frowned. "You have solved the case?"

"Well, not the whole thing, but half of it, I believe."

"What did you find?"

Holmes shook his head. "With all due respect, Lestrade, I really cannot tell you."

"What will I tell the public?"

"Nothing. They will never know. Clear her away, and by the time a more reasonable person gets out of bed, all will be the same."

"Will I ever know?"

Holmes peered at him sharply. "Likely not. Just be satisfied that all will be taken care of."

As we walked away from the scene, I asked him, "What does it all mean? 'I am your sister.' I can make nothing of it."

Holmes glanced at me, smiling. "The dead woman is not the one who went to our rooms last night."

I frowned. "She is not Margaret Hunter?"

"No, no, you misunderstand me. The woman in our rooms was not Margaret Hunter."

"Then who was she?"

Holmes' eyes shone. "M. My sister. Of that, I am certain."

I stopped short. "Holmes! All these years, and you haven't told me you had a sister?"

My friend shook his head. "I never knew I had a sister. But these events have shown to me that I do."

"You really must elucidate!"

Holmes smiled. "There are a number of proofs. Did you notice the earrings?"

I confessed that I had not.

"The dead woman has no piercings. The woman last night had small studs. I asked Mr. Hunter if his wife had clip on earrings, but he affirmed in the negative. That settled the case of the earrings. Also, the dead woman had a richer, more expensive type of black gown. The woman last night had a plain skirt and blouse. Clear so far?"

I nodded.

"Next point. Does the cool, collected woman last night seem to be one who is terrified of those enemies?"

"Certainly not."

"Yet her husband has declared she was scared out of her wits by them, and we can see fear of them was the cause of her death. That points to two different people. Also, did you notice Hunter's face?"

I nodded. "Of course. Horribly mangled."

"Exactly. Such a face was barely recognizable. The woman last night was an actress, a very good one, who disguised herself as Margaret Hunter. Her story was real, but why she came to me was not what Margaret Hunter would have done. Hunter would have pleaded with me to stop her death. M wanted me to make sure I convicted the right murderer."

I frowned. "But how can you do such a thing?"

"Let me finish. It seems very odd, does it not, that her handwriting was extraordinarily commonplace on the first letter? As if typewritten? As a matter of fact, it was not. M, being a very skilled actress and possessing the talent of being an excellent forger, wrote like this so I could not trace her real handwriting. Somehow, she had Margaret write that most recent note to me, which told me that M is my sister."

"But how did she, a stranger, convince Margaret to do such an absurd thing?"

Holmes smiled. "Because M is one of her father's enemies. She probably terrified Margaret into doing whatever she liked."

"So the root of the case is to find your sister."

Holmes lit up. "Yes, yes exactly. I believe that was her purpose all along. She thinks the time is ready for me to meet her. Hopefully, all that is dark to me will be made day when I find her. You are tired, Watson?"

I blinked. "Yes, of course."

"I will start upon this trail that my sister has set for me, and in the meantime, I do not want to keep you up. I will meet with you back in Baker Street in the evening."

It was nearly six o'clock that night before Holmes entered our rooms. Chuckling, he sat down next to me. "Mycroft is many things, but a liar is not one of them. I know for sure that I have a sister."

"Did you find anything else?"

Holmes shrugged. "We shall see. Do you have anything this evening?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. The days are slow this winter."

"Excellent! In that case, to-night Miss Rianne Stanley stars as Marie Antoinette in a play about the French Revolution, and I think we will both enjoy it immensely. It begins at eight o'clock, which will give me enough time to catch you up on this most intriguing case, and for us to have supper."

A moment later, Holmes lounged in his armchair, his feet on the coffee table with a pipe in his hand.

"My sister has been leading an incredibly busy life," he began. "It is plain that she must use her observation and deduction powers for some use, since it is also evident that she lacks the laziness of Mycroft and has the energy of me, perhaps more. What can it be? Well, I start on the trail that she left me. First, I know that she is an excellent actress. She looks exactly the same as the unfortunate Ms. Hunter, and she could have acted exactly like her if she had wanted to deceive us. Good.

"Such a woman would have brought attention to wherever she went. I went about the theatres of London inquiring about her, and there was one actress that was famed for her skill. You know I also possess acting abilities, which has proved useful on multiple occasions. Yes, she had grey eyes. Yes, she was tall. She was known as Miss. Rianne Stanley, and now you see why we are going to a play of hers, so we can meet her afterwards.

"Now, I know she would not be content with such a career as acting, and I went about finding out what else she did. Margaret Hunter was an excellent thief. Pardon my saying so, but her husband's descriptions did not convince me that she was a particularly quick-witted woman. She may be unnoticeable, but I fail to see how that would enable her to _steal_ things unnoticed, especially frequently enough to make a living. No, there had to be something else.

"I mentioned to you, Watson, that my sister M has a great influence on her. M was, or was a part of, Hunter's father's enemies. The thought occurred to me that she might be the corrupted version of me, working on the side of darkness. That would explain why she contributed to the deaths of Hunter's family, why it was able to be carried out in so unpredictable and neat a manner, and why Margaret was such a good thief. It was because Margaret wasn't the thief at all. My _sister_ was the thief, and she led a third life, acting as Margaret Hunter the thief. She hid away the true woman, told her what to say to her husband, and gave part of what she stole to the couple to keep the story real. Do you follow?"

I nodded slowly. "She has a complex mind."

"A trait of the master criminal! I mentioned she plays the flute in addition to acting such a detailed set of lives."

"You deduced that she played the flute from the shape of her mouth, perhaps?"

Holmes laughed, one of his dry, hoarse ones. "No, no, I knew because I have watched her perform on numerous occasions. Talented."

"So you think she is on the criminal side?"

My friend puffed on his pipe. "Now, that's what I wanted to find out. My first thought was Moriarty. All criminals somehow find their way to him. Maybe my sister was his equal. If so, he was sure to know her. Well, I have my sources, and I found out very quickly that the giant spider in the centre of its web of darkness was greatly disturbed. Something had upset the whole order of things. It didn't take a genius to find out who.

"You see, Watson, Moriarty thought that my sister _was_ Margaret Hunter. He thought she was married to Mr. William, he used her skills as a master thief, and he was fine with her cover of an actress. He did not know she was M Holmes in disguise, and he did not know that the true Margaret Hunter even existed. So when he finds out to-day that Margaret Hunter is dead, he is perplexed. Why is his top thief suddenly dead? And why is Miss. Rianne still performing tonight? Of course he suspects Miss. Rianne. He _knows_ something is wrong with her."

I shook my head. "I don't see why your sister did all this."

"Ah, so you know that my sister is responsible for Margaret's death."

I nodded. "Of course. Who else?"

"Who else exactly! That organization, those enemies of her father, that was my sister's doing. It's all fine if she's a criminal, but why arouse Moriarty's suspicions? Why go to all the trouble of pretending she was Margaret Hunter instead of M Holmes?"

"She wasn't a criminal! She was a detective, working on the inside!"

"Brilliant, Watson, brilliant!" Holmes exclaimed. "Wonderful! My sister lived in an elaborate plot of a life."

I frowned. "But why kill Margaret?"

Holmes shrugged. "Well, well, she has to do _some_ crimes, otherwise Moriarty would have offed her sooner. What I don't understand is why do it now? Why kill Margaret now? Why still perform tonight when that is sure to raise Moriarty's suspicions? What's the whole thing with Hunter's father's enemies? That, my friend, is what we will ask her to-night. By the way, I think it would be wise to bring your old revolver. Moriarty is not one to take lightly. Would supper at the new restaurant a flew blocks down suit you? I haven't eaten all day. Sirloin steak sounds delectable, but I heard their gravy is absolutely _marvellous_."


	3. Chapter 3

So after a wholly satisfying meal, we arrived at the theatre at precisely eight o'clock. Waking up so early in the morning did little to tire my friend, and he was as alert and awake as ever.

"Keep the revolver in your front pocket," he whispered as we took our seats in the side of the theatre. "I don't want any surprises."

The performance, however, was far from satisfactory. I saw Holmes drum his fingers on his lap, staring at the star actress with his sharp eyes. Once or twice he muttered, "It's not her. She did the right thing."

As the curtains were drawn, my companion sprang up, caught me by my arm, and hurried outside. We rushed to the side exit, and was just in time to meet a woman dashing out.

Immediately, she grasped Holmes by the arm. "Thank God. They're not here now, but they will come. It is dangerous even now. We must make haste."

She nodded to me and we started on our way, at a very fast pace. I saw Holmes glance furtively behind him, then whisper to his sister, "Moriarty give you much trouble to-day?"

"Only a few kidnapping attempts but not much," she whispered back. "I'll explain all when we get to safety."

It turned out, however, that safety was not Baker Street. I soon grew lost among the intricate network of streets and alleys that we traversed, though it seemed to me that Holmes and his sister were of one mind, and knew exactly where we were headed. After fifteen minutes or so we were joined by, as I soon found out, Mycroft, the eldest Holmes.

"I knew you'd find me," she whispered to Holmes, "and I wired for Mycroft to join us."

"We are headed to your rooms, perhaps?" I asked her quietly.

"No, no, too dangerous. Did you not hear what I just said?" she replied.

And that was all that was said, until at last we arrived at a dark, abandoned alley and M quickly unlocked a decrepit wooden door and pulled us all in.

She led us down an old, dusty hallway, and unlocked another door, locking it again behind us. I was amazed at the change.

In the depths of this old, abandoned building was the private quarters of Sherlock Holmes' sister. The resemblance with Baker Street was remarkable.

There was the chemical table, riddled with test tubes, stained with an assortment of molecules. There was the bookshelf, filled to the brim with volumes bursting with loose papers and old notes. And more scraps of writing and newspapers were tossed and spread all over the room, on the mantelpiece, on armchairs and couches, on the carpeted floor.

But the room was quite a bit neater than Holmes', and lacked the smoke that resulted from my friend's long relationship with his pipe. In the corners were bits and pieces of costumes, wigs and dresses and trousers. There was a makeup table, and a music wing, full of sheet music and adorned with a silver, shining flute on the chair. It branched off into a hallway on the side, where there was a kitchen and bathroom.

M soon had a fire roaring, and boiled some water for tea. "Of course you all have had supper," she remarked as she added sugar and mint leaves to our cups. "Maybe this will soothe our nerves, though I am sure they are all as strong as steel."

"It is safe here?" Holmes asked from the couch.

His sister nodded. "Oh yes. Moriarty is not dust, you know. He cannot reach into every crack and cranny of London."

She sighed. "Still, I used to have one or two other places like this that got destroyed by him."

M swiftly handed each of us a teacup, and sat down elegantly on the couch next to Holmes. I then had my first full look at her.

Certainly she was more similar to Holmes than Mycroft. Her youth was evident. Her eyes were alert, her features beautiful in an intelligent way, expressive and sharp, and her limbs long and slender. Her fingers possessed a unique dexterity and delicateness, one that likely enabled her to perform chemical experiments with the small test tubes. Her dark brown hair was clipped up, giving her an older, wiser look to her young face. Her gown of burgundy red was simple, but of excellent taste. She was the very likeness of a female Holmes.

After a moment, she suddenly gave a little laugh. "No doubt you all think this much more different than I do, but I cannot help but see the comedy of it all. Mycroft's face here is more than enough to provide loads of laughter."

Holmes' older brother sunk back into his chair. "I kept your wishes. Do you ask for more?"

She smiled. "No, you were very good in my instructions. Oh, dear me, how rude! Poor Sherlock here, for all his intellect, and his long-suffering friend do not even know my name!"

She laughed, glancing merrily at Holmes as he asked, "Well is it Margaret or Rianne or what? M?"

The waterfall of bubbling laughter that ensued brought a smile to my lips. No doubt she was more vibrant and joyful than her brother could even dream of being.

"M, ha! That was a good one, wasn't it? Well, my name – it's really quite awkward introducing oneself to their brother, isn't it? – is Myelina Holmes. I am dear Sherlock's here twin."

I widened my eyes. "His twin!"

She smiled. "Yes, yes. I will explain all."

And now, to my relief, we can stop calling her M or Holmes' sister.

Myelina cleared her throat. "When we were born, Sherlock, our parents were both delighted and horrified at the same time. They loved both of us, but they could not afford to feed and raise two of us. So they had to choose – Sherlock or me."

"I would have enjoyed a little sister," Mycroft muttered.

"Now, now, Mycroft, no complaining," she scolded. "Our parents decided to keep the boy. They gave me to a friend of theirs, and I grew up with them. We moved to northern France in my early childhood, but I was still taught about you two, and I kept my British roots. Well, I changed my name and studied for a career in acting, and it proved to be a great one. I moved to London, and performed both in plays and flute performances, but it turned out I had a gift. Observation, deducting, logic. I needed to use them, to tax my brain. Otherwise I would enter into the blackest of depressions, which was communicated very effectively into flute music. If you ever want to feel on the brink of death, just listen to those compositions. Anyways, I discovered how impossibly daft Scotland Yard was."

Holmes murmured something in agreement.

"Actually, they're not so bad, but in all of their unfinished cases I wanted to scream at the obvious solutions. You might be surprised to know that I am a little above your level, Sherlock, and you too, Mycroft. Well, detective work wasn't enough for my hyperactive brain. The police would get mad, I would be mad, and it would be terror.

"So I started on this little scheme of mine. I found this nice lady named Margaret Hunter, who was deathly frightened of some enemies of her father. I endeavoured to solve her little problem, and that is how I found the charming Professor Moriarty. His employees were those enemies, and I had a brilliant idea.

"Well, to make a long story shorter, I convinced Margaret to collaborate with me. Under her appearance – a trivial trick with makeup and costumes – I entered into a job with Moriarty as a master thief. I choose robbing because I could always return the value of the lost items in money, which was plentiful.

"So during the day, I hid Margaret in some place of mine while I went about the extremely easy task of thieving. Mind you, I only did this more minor offense in order to gain more valuable information. If I did nothing wrong I would never gain the trust of Moriarty.

"Eventually, I earned his complete confidence, and he revealed to me more ghastly crimes. Murders, revenges, tortures. These I tried to stop as best as I could, but sometimes, of course, they slip.

"Then you, Sherlock, came along. At first, before you heard about the professor, all was well. But soon you became a thorn in Moriarty's side. He stopped me from thieving, and ordered me to stop you. At first, I only planned to prevent you from solving your cases. All the times you failed, Sherlock, I was responsible. Any unfinished cases was my doing. But Moriarty wasn't satisfied. The closer you came to him, the more he suspected me. The noose grew tighter around me. I needed help. Your help.

"It was time to reveal myself, to leave Margaret and Rianne, and emerge as Myelina. I brought Margaret out last night, hid her in Boscombe Street, and I went to you. But Moriarty is cunning. His agents found Margaret, thought she was me, and was about to murder her but she died of terror before they could lay a hand on her. They left quietly, and it was about two or three hours later before a passer-by discovered her, and alerted the police."

"One moment," Holmes interrupted. "What was the matter about Hunter's father's enemies?"

"Ah, yes, the enemies," Myelina exhaled. "Those were a lower branch of Moriarty's doing. Her father did something stupid, gained the hatred of a couple hot blooded men, and it resulted in all of his blood relatives being murdered on August 13th, one every year."

"But why do it that way?" I asked. "Why not just kill them all at once?"

All three Holmes threw their hands up, exasperated.

"Don't you know how those types of criminals work?" Mycroft demanded.

"They like to make an extra loophole for the police, provide more confusion and despair for their victim's relatives, and make themselves feel clever!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"And besides, multiple murders at once in the same family would raise a large amount of suspicion!" Myelina finished.

I raised my hands in surrender, feeling, even more than usual, stupid in the presence of three such geniuses.

Myelina waved a hand consolingly. "Oh, please don't feel bad, Dr. Watson. You're cleverer than most."

"He's fine, Myelina," Holmes muttered.

I crossed my arms. "Of course I'm fine!"

"The enemies?" Mycroft pressed.

Myelina smiled sideways at him, then continued the story. "I convinced Margaret to work with me, because she would get a decent amount of money, and I would stop the enemies from killing her. They listened to my orders, and left her alone until Moriarty had them kill her because he thought she was a traitor.

"When I found out Margaret was dead, all I could do was make sure Moriarty didn't find me. My performance was already scheduled to-night, but if I skipped it, though the public would be stirred, it would only make sense to Moriarty. He thought I was Margaret who led a double life as Rianne, but now that Margaret was dead, it would only be suitable that Rianne was no more. The only problem was, Moriarty was suspicious.

"He knew, you see, that I, Myelina Holmes, existed. He didn't know my name, of course, but he knew I was alive. He'd seen me together with Margaret on several occasions, but I could not avoid those times. It was the one flaw in my plan. The natural thing would be to investigate me. Moriarty knows that Hunter isn't the shrewdest of women. He found that out from observing her when she was her, not me. Who was this stranger who was giving Margaret such clever tips, he would ask.

"Well, I found out very quickly that he was on my trail. Stuck to the main streets when I was nearly kidnapped in an alley, but I knew the vast number of agents were just waiting for the right moment to whisk me off to Moriarty. What was I to do? I needed your help, Sherlock."

"Thanks a lot," Mycroft muttered.

"Your welcome. And you really couldn't expect me to use you with your lack of energy that Sherlock is plentiful in. Now, I knew the little trail I left you would lead you to the theatre where I was to perform. I had to be there. So I took great care to lose my pursuers and hurried over to the theatre, knowing that it would be the last place where the agents would look. I told the directors that I was Miss Rianne's sister and that she was greatly ill and would not be performing. They hastily arranged a substitute, which you both may have noticed was not as convincing a character as myself. I then wired to Mycroft to meet us in a quiet street about fifteen minutes after the performance, because…well, he's our brother too, and he ought to be here. Well, when it was over, I left quickly, and Sherlock went too. From there you know the rest. Any questions?"

"Me?" Mycroft suggested.

Myelina nodded. "Ah, yes. Mycroft has always been an absolute darling. He was old enough to remember me when I was sent away, and we stayed connected throughout the years. He was the only one who knew the whole story about me, he was kind enough to keep everything a secret, and he's helped me on several occasions to get paperwork and things in order, which is a complex task if you are three people at once."

I noticed that Holmes had stared at his twin with his eyes riveted on her. A gleam of humanity stood out in that machine, a sliver of love and devotion to the one human being who was most like him, mentally and physically.

"Why did you never bother to tell me about you?" Holmes demanded as he recovered from a brief reverie.

Myelina shook her head. "It was absolutely necessary you did not know about me. I did not want to fight against my extremely clever brother for a cause I did not believe in, but it would have been worse if you knew me. I wouldn't be able to bear it. Now, however, matters are different."

"Indeed," Holmes announced. "Moriarty is on your trail. He knows your face, your name."

"That is not true," she quickly replied. "He knows my face, he does not know my name."

"Well, what are you going to do now?" I asked her. "Detective work?"

"Flute work," Myelina promptly answered. "I have a violin, too, Sherlock, and maybe we'll give Mycroft and Dr. Watson a little treat, hmm?"

After a delightful concert from the two master musicians, Myelina gathered us in a circle. "I must have you all swear to keep this secret. I have read every single one of your chronicles, Dr. Watson, and though they are quite exaggerated and not scientific as they should be, I will not prevent you from publishing an account of this one. However, I urge you to refrain from all mentions of it until the dear Professor is dead, and I give you my permission. Do I have your word?"

The three of us acquiesced, and as Myelina led us out of those cheery rooms, I heard Holmes whisper to her, "I _will_ see you again. You will not disappear from me this time."

Myelina smiled. "By all means, try, Sherlock. But you will fail."

Then the door was closed behind us, and that was the last time in a long while that I saw Myelina Holmes.

Several times, Sherlock Holmes attempted to find his sister again, but never succeeded, unless she called upon him. The small rooms which had been hers were abandoned, and Miss Rianne disappeared forever. Still, on rare occasions, she would appear to him in the guise of one of the four million inhabitants of London, and only he would know that she was his sister.

After Moriarty was killed and Holmes faked his death for three years, she appeared to me to tell me it was alright for me to publish this story. But after that, she never appeared to either Holmes or I, and we were left to forever wonder underneath which stranger's costume lay Miss Myelina Holmes.


End file.
